This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
August 20th; 5.45am. Disturbed by raised voices, one v familiar, viz First Of Her Name. Trace to outside. Intrigued, follow sound. Next door, the Colonel is losing in the competition for Most Stentorian Vocals In A Domestic Contretemps to First Of Her Name who has been removing bottle tops with her vowels since university and is thus an octave and several decibels above anything the armed forces have so far developed. Something about theft and roses.
5.57am. Watch kettle boil. Sleep deprivation makes judgement suspect so wondering if waiting up for return of First Of Her Name is prudent when basket-carrying thunder enters kitchen.
5.58am. The act of holding up teapot and mouthing ‘cuppa’ has brought on emotional crisis I am I’ll-equipped to handle before the Today programme has begun, viz a hug and a ‘thank you’.
6.44am. Several brews have encompassed confession that First Of Her Name is a horticultural larcenist, viz she has been rising with the dawn and visiting our neighbours to ‘dead head’ any and all floribunda that she can reach. It appears ‘dead head’ is a euphemism for ‘pick in full bloom’ but leave my suspicions unspoken.
6.59am. The reason for this particular predilection to purloin petals is apparent. First Of Her Name is intent on creating bespoke funnels of biodegradable confetti for the wedding in the light of the contractual restriction on the use of paper confetti at our chosen venue. Frankly you would think for what we are shelling out they could employ an itinerant sweep but keep this thought to myself. The garage, which I visit as infrequently as I can as it is filled with instruments of torture, viz gardening tools and implements with which one might be inclined to decorate were one inclined to decorate, is full of sheets of baking paper on which a sea of petals in various stages of embalming are laid out. It is impressive and I voice an opinion to that effect.
7.01am. First Of Her Name is inconsolable. It appears that, while she remains confident she will have sufficient rotting vegetation to compost the First Born and the Fiancé on the big day, the act of being caught by the Colonel has created the conditions for a social disaster, viz the Colonel and Mrs Pease-Grommet will now have to be invited, something that has to date been avoided.
10.27am. Walk Spiro Agnew and wrestle with dilemma. On the one hand Felicity Pease-Grommet’s attendance at the wedding will be an act of self-harm as stupid as thinking instant coffee has improved over time and on the other there is my reluctance to play my Get Out Of Jail card.
12.35pm. Choose nobility over sense and visit the Colonel. Inform him he will be receiving an invitation to the nuptials. Allow him a moment of self-righteous smugness before telling him to decline politely or I will reveal his duplicity to the Golf Club committee. The Colonel blusters but he did not rise to a rank requiring shoulder adornment without appreciating the importance of the tactical withdrawal.
1pm. Explain to First Of Her Name that the Pease-Grommets will not be able to make the wedding, when invited. She and I have not been married for as long as we have without her (a) suspecting trickery but (b) knowing this is one time not to press for an explanation. ‘Well done, darling.’
1.10pm. In pub, reviewing video of the Colonel moving his ball during the Prescott-Wardle Open Trophy. Delete with a degree of resignation. Sometimes there is a greater good and I will have accept my leeks will not win this year’s Best In Show, with the Colonel in charge of judging.